


Open House

by bookjunkiecat



Series: Ink & Roses [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: But also socially awkward, F/F, M/M, Myc has anxiety, Pining, Sally is a good bro, bisexual awakening, sherlock is a good bro, socially awkward Greg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:33:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25170184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: It's the open house for Myc's tattoo studio, and he's a social butterfly on the surface, and a wreck underneath. Greg comes to his rescue...after having an enlightening conversation with Myc's blunt, unusual brother.
Relationships: Hoopervan - Relationship, Molly Hooper/Sally Donovan, Mycroft & Greg, Mycroft & Sherlock, Mystrade - Relationship, pre-Mystrade - Relationship
Series: Ink & Roses [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1375687
Comments: 34
Kudos: 111





	Open House

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe this took me THIRTEEN MONTHS of indecision and struggle, and then in one afternoon suddenly the pieces fell into place. If any readers are still around, I apologize for the long delay, and I thank you for your patience! I fully intend to continue this series, and hopefully not have such a long period in between!

“God, this is classy as shit,” Donovan said admiringly, slugging back a mouthful of red wine. Dribbling a bit, she cursed, and swiped at her arm, then wiped her fingers on her chartreuse corduroy mini-skirt. Myc cringed. He admired Donovan and had the utmost respect for her growing skill as an artist--and for her bold personal use of colour in her wardrobe--but her manners made him flinch. As always, when he found himself judging her, Myc was forcibly reminded of his impossible-to-please mother and over-compensated in his manner.

“You look fantastic tonight,” he complimented--sincerely, let it be noted. “As does the studio. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

“Damn right,” Donovan agreed, slinging a friendly arm around his back. They’d been working together for three years now, and when Myc had decided it was time to strike out on his own to open his first solo studio, he’d known she had to come with him. And of course, wherever Donovan went, so too went--

“Molly!” Donovan cried, abandoning Myc and hurrying to wrap her tiny girlfriend up in her long arms, “There you are, angel!” She acted as if they’d been parted for months, rather than the four days it had taken for Molly to finish packing up their things and join her in Graveley’s Hollow.

Pushing a strand of purple-streaked hair out of her big brown eyes, Molly fussed over her pin-curls. “Blimey, it’s windy out there!” She shivered, “Cold too! It feels wonderful in here, Myc.”

“Might as well crank up the radiator while we can afford it,” Myc said cheerfully. Despite his nerves, he was truly hopeful that this venture would be a success. He’d spent years in the industry, studying not only technique, but the way businesses thrived and boomed, what brought them under. Patterns of traffic, advertising, clientele, location...he’d poured over it all. Graveley’s Hollow, on the face of it, might seem like an odd choice for a tattoo studio, but he was fairly confident that he’d made the right decision. 

“Good lord it’s hot in here!” Complained a familiar voice. Myc turned and smiled at his younger brother, who was smiling despite his tone. As always, he was wearing the vintage greatcoat Myc had bought him for his graduation from uni. There was a new scarf, a rich blue, wound around his neck, and it highlighted his striking eyes and pale skin. Sherlock could have been a model, with his distinctive looks, but he was shy and prefered his bees and flowers, and the solitude of the farm he’d retreated to. Myc knew his little brother didn’t care for large gatherings, particularly with a lot of strangers, but he’d assured him he wouldn’t miss this occasion.

“Sherlock, you made it!” He pretended shock, “And you’re  _ early.” _   
  


“I did as you requested and stopped work early so I could shower and be here before the party was over.” Sherlock gave him an enthusiastic hug, looking around the shop, pale eyes bright with curiosity. Though he rarely strayed far from his farm and his beehives by choice, he had a fascination with the habits and mannerisms of people, and so when he did venture out, he tended to absorb it all like a sponge.

“I’m glad you didn’t get caught up in your hothouse,” Myc teased gently, pouring him sparkling water, “I half expected to have to call and remind you to be here.”

“John made sure I didn’t forget,” Sherlock said absently, as he accepted a hug from Molly. 

“John?”

“My new assistant,” his brother told him, sounding casual.

Too casual. Myc gave him a sharp look--his brother didn’t make friends easily, never had, and to his knowledge he was still a virgin, had never had a date or expressed interest in sex. All of which was fine, of course. Despite Myc’s own preference for casual sex and a footloose personal life, he understood that not everyone was the same. He rather suspected Sherlock might be asexual, but they’d never discussed it. There was something about his tone, however, when speaking of this mysterious ‘John’ which put Myc on alert. As a big brother he knew he tended to be overprotective, but their early life had sort of conditioned him to be a protector.

Now was not the time to drag Sherlock into a corner and interrogate him--not that that would go particularly well if he were even to do so. Making a mental note to pay Sherlock a visit soon and check this John out for himself, Myc contented himself for now with showing his brother around. Sherlock had no ink, but he was enthusiastic about Myc’s projects, and he was inspecting the framed artwork, wall of flash art, and the portfolios of finished tattoos as he wandered the studio. Molly joined him and Sally trailed after them, holding Molly’s hand in her left and texting with her right.

Myc surveyed it all with satisfaction; the studio was impeccably clean, perfectly appointed and well-lit. He had painted the ugly cement block wall at the back of the studio a soft white and then created and painted the mural himself. It was an abstract of faces, plants and shapes, eye-catching and bold, and he was pretty psyched to see the reactions of the townsfolk to his space. He knew some of them would just come to gawk, and for the free food and drink, and chance to meet the ‘weird’ newcomers. He was fine with that. He also hoped some of them might see that this place wasn’t too scary or alternative, and may even be tempted to consider a tattoo. Certainly a few of them would be less intimidated by Molly’s piercing options, and they would get a bit of business from that.

Others would come with the idea of looking around, maybe intending to come back for artwork to adorn their own bodies. In his years in the business, Myc had learned to never try and pigeonhole people into the ‘type’ or ‘sort’ to get ink. Over the years he’d tattooed anywhere from recent graduates to businessmen, stay-at-home mums, to octogenarians getting their first ink. Under the button-down shirts and pinnies of many a staid looking person was a colourful canvas of their own personal loves. Not everyone was a biker covered to the eyebrows with prison ink. 

The food began to arrive--he’d enlisted the services of several local businesses--and Myc was busy directing them where to place things, and he glanced at his mobile, nervous lest early arrivals show up before everything was ready. Happily he had it all in place by the time the first people drifted in, looking both curious and abashed. Moving into what Sally had called his ‘charming Myc’ mode, he set about greeting people as they arrived, trying to exude warmth and reassurance. It was hard to settle into a conversation with people one on one, as he felt obliged to say hello to everyone, and there were quite a few questions as he circled the room. 

The sound of a familiar laugh nearby made the hair on the back of his neck stand up, and Myc had shivered and begun smiling before he even realized he knew exactly who the owner of that laugh was. Sure enough he swung around and spied Greg standing with an older woman, Martha Hudson, the owner of the pub, admiring the mural. They were laughing and chatting, two bright-eyed individuals, far different in age and temperament, yet looking so comfortable together. Having spent an evening with Greg, Myc was aware of just how warm and welcoming the man was.

He wanted to go over to him immediately, but someone was touching his elbow, and he had to reluctantly turn away. A few minutes later, looking over for Greg again, Myc didn’t see him. He glanced around, but the handsome florist was nowhere to be seen. His heart sank and he had to shore up his smile as he focused back on the words of the pair of older women in front of him. Helen and Dionna were in their early sixties, and at first he’d taken them for friends, but had quickly gathered they were long-term partners. It was surprising, yet heartening, to find that the village was more modern than he’d expected. 

Determined to get his mind off of Greg, Mycroft plunged into circulating, wanting a chance to mingle with as many people as possible and answer questions. He supposed maybe Greg had just dropped by to be sociable, and had slipped out when he’d had a chance. Although it seemed a little odd that Greg hadn’t bothered to at least say hello.

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Oh God. Greg came back out of the short corridor from the gents and stopped, struck by how gorgeous Myc looked. He was wearing a teal-green velvet smoking jacket open over a ripped band tee and expensive looking jeans, with a pair of sleek, 60s style ankle boots. His hair was fixed impeccably and he looked like a beautiful, exotic, unattainable tropical bird. Glancing down at his own boring button-down and trousers, Greg frowned unhappily. He was so out of place in Myc’s world.

Myc was animated, laughing, clearly in his element meeting so many new people and showing them around his amazing studio. Probably hadn’t even noticed Greg wasn’t in the room. Never mind the smile he’d shot him across the heads between them earlier--he probably smiled like that at everyone.

“He’s rather flamboyant, isn’t he?” inquired a deep voice from nearby. Greg glanced to his right, saw a tall, handsome young man regarding him curiously. “He’s most outgoing when he’s most uncomfortable, you know.”

“Um, sorry...have we been introduced?” Greg asked.

“No. I’m Sherlock.”

“Greg,” he stuck out a friendly hand. This man must be one of Myc’s friends or maybe an employee. “I run the florists just across the road.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock hummed, holding his hand overlong. His pale eyes were striking not only in their unusual colour, but their intensity. Greg coloured under his regard.

“Um…”

“Are you a friend of Myc’s?”

“I suppose? We’re neighbors of sorts.” Greg felt off-footed, as if someone this elegant, intimidatingly exotic man could clearly see that he and Myc had nothing in common. “I’ve had him over to dinner.” Okay, so they had a few things in common. Their dinner had been really, really good. Talking for hours about food, their childhoods, books, the telly they were obsessed with. Remembering how reluctant Myc had seemed to leave, Greg felt his confidence buoy up. They weren’t so different after all, just surface things.

_ “Have _ you?” Sherlock had finally dropped his hand, but he stood over him, studying Greg’s face as if it were a particularly interesting book. “And is your boyfriend here tonight?”

“B-boyfriend?” Greg stuttered over the word. Unable to help himself, he touched his waist to make sure he’d zipped his trousers, feeling exposed. “Boyfriend?”

“Girlfriend? Wife? Partner?” Sherlock waved his hand, “Parakeet?”

“I’m...not married,” Greg said breathlessly. “Not any--she left me--I’m s-single.” He swallowed hard, “What made you ask if I had a…” he looked around, lowered his voice in case they could be overheard, “...boyfriend?” 

“Have I gotten it wrong? I assumed you were at least bisexual, given the way you were looking at my brother.” The younger man’s brow contracted slightly. “I...often get social cues wrong.”

“Brother,” Greg repeated blankly. Unsure exactly why, he was nonetheless dimly aware of a wave of relief washing over him, dissolving a knot of tension. “You’re fine,” he assured him, not really heeding his words.

Sherlock smiled, unexpectedly sweet. “Myc’s my older brother. I’ve come to support the opening of his dream.”

“That’s good of you,” Greg said. His eyes, which kept being drawn to Myc, found him again. With a start he realized the other man was watching him in turn. His eyes skipped to his brother, then back to Greg. “Myc’s…” he forgot what he was going to say, hardly aware he’d stopped talking. Heart beating fast, pulse throbbing in his throat, Greg felt lightheaded and slightly nauseated. “I’m bisexual?” His voice came out thin and uncertain.

“Are you?” Sherlock sounded amused, although kind.

Greg pulled his eyes away from Myc’s and looked at Sherlock, stunned and more than a little giddy. “I am. I’m--wow, I am.” Not sure if he wanted to laugh or throw up, he leaned against the wall, sagging a little.

“Did I just trigger a crisis of sexuality?” Sherlock asked, sounding anxious now. Greg looked at him. The younger man did look repentant, chewing anxiously on his lower lip. 

“No,” he said slowly. “I--I think I always knew. I just. I didn’t know?”

“I know just what you mean,” Sherlock said, which wasn’t what Greg had expected at all. He looked at him, startled, and the younger man gave him a crooked smile, not explaining himself. “Tell me, Greg, did you think I was Myc’s boyfriend?” Greg nodded dumbly, flushing. “To my knowledge Myc hasn’t had anything so long-term as a ‘boyfriend’ in many years. His attitude towards relationships might best be summed up by his tattoo. I’m going to assume rightly that you haven’t seen it.”

“I’ve not seen any of his tattoos.” Greg thought of what they might be, of  _ where _ they might be, and grew pinker still.

“He only has the one--rather unusual in an artist, normally they tend to be covered in their own and other’s ink. Myc, however, has just one.” Sherlock sketched his hand over his left arm, along the inside of his forearm. “‘Love is pain,’” he quoted softly. “My brother truly believes that. Our childhood was.” He stopped, eyes unfocused, face drawing inward with pain. After a long silence he continued softly, “Lonely.” An entire childhood seemed to be wrapped up in that one soft word.

  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
  


Greg wouldn’t call himself shy, exactly, especially if he was around people he knew, or in small groups, but he’d never cared much for crowded, noisy parties. Something which had been a major point of contention between him and Jeanette, especially in the last years of their marriage. Drifting over to the table of eats set out, he was pleased to see that Myc had apparently reached out to his parents, Martha, and Speedy’s to supply food. There was a great selection of options for veggies, unsurprising given Myc’s lifestyle, but he’d generously allowed for meat-eaters as well.

Taking one of the small plates, Greg began to pile items on, only stopping when a spanakopita threatened to tumble off. Abashed, he glanced around guiltily; it was only as he did so that he realized his thoughts had been,  _ Best put half this back before Janie sees. _ Suddenly annoyed that she was still messing with his head, nearly a year after she’d walked out on him, Greg defiantly picked the spanakopita up and shoved it in his mouth, chewing with gusto. Sure maybe he could stand to lose some weight, but no one else had ever said anything to him aside from Janie. As she wasn’t here he kind of thought he deserved to eat whatever he wanted.

It was comforting to stand near the table and work his way through the plate. A few people stopped by to chat, all friends and neighbors, and Greg started to relax. Then he saw Myc swooping across the room, eyes on him. Intensely aware that he had a mouthful of pita and hummus, Greg tried to chew and swallow faster. All he could think was  _ I’m bi, I’m bi, I’m bi. _

“Greg!” Myc greeted him loudly, and grabbing him by the elbow, gently towed him down the corridor, “Before I forget, let me just show you that plant I was telling you about--”

“Wha--” Greg didn’t get a chance to finish his bewildered question before Myc pushed him into what turned out to be a small office and shut the door. 

Leaning against it, he gave Greg a wide-eyed look. “I’m sorry, I just...I had to escape for a minute. I saw you standing there looking like an angel and I grabbed on.”

“Oh, I--that’s alright,” Greg said. He realized he was still holding the loaded plate and wanted to hide.

Myc followed his gaze to the plate and he groaned, “Oh god, forgive me for being a pig--” he grabbed a red pepper mini quiche and shoved it in his mouth whole, crumbs falling down his shirt-front. Closing his eyes he gave a low, grumbly moan and chewed his overly-large mouthful until he could talk again. “Sorry, appalling manners, I know. I haven’t eaten in hours and parties stress me out and I just--”

Greg held a mini olive and feta pastry case out to him and Myc shut up, opening his mouth obediently. Feeding it to him, Greg could feel his face warming. Myc ate silently, his eyes on Greg’s. Licking his lips, his tongue almost swiping Greg’s fingers, he gave him a tiny, soft smile. “Thank you,” he sighed, eyes huge and grateful. “You’re a sweetheart.”

“Uh.” Brilliant, Greg. “Need to hide out for a few minutes?”

Myc’s tension was visible, his struggle easy to see as he cast a look at the closed door. “I  _ should _ really get back...”

“Your staff is there,” Greg pointed out, jiggling the plate at him. He smiled a little, “Think you can spare five minutes to breathe and have a nibble. Gotta make sure you don’t pass out.”

“I’m hardly in danger of that,” Myc scoffed, but he sat on a stack of unopened boxes and patted the top next to him, “C’mere.”

Leaning gingerly against the boxes, Greg was aware of the heat of Myc’s arm against his. Myc leaned into him a little, selecting another delicacy.  _ I’m bi, oh my god, I’m  _ so _ bisexual. How did I miss this?  _ “H-have you had anything to drink other than wine?”

Myc shook his head guiltily, biting his lip. Greg avoided looking at his mouth and even more firmly ignored his wayward thoughts.  _ I am so gay for him! _ “Hold on.” Shoving the plate in Myc’s hands, he slipped out of the room. His unobtrusiveness came in handy as he worked his way through the room to the tall, slim woman he’d met earlier. “Ms Donovan?”

She swung around, face relaxing into a friendly grin when she saw him, “Sal, please, gawd. ‘Ms Donovan’ is my mum.”

“Yeah, sorry. Um,” he lowered his voice, “Myc’s a bit on edge--silly bloke hasn’t eaten. I’m going to take him some water and make him stay put for, like, fifteen minutes? You good out here?”

“Yeah, yeah, go ahead. He’s been going non-stop for hours. I’ve got this, you go see our boy sorted.” She punched him lightly in the arm, “Tell him to breathe. He kinda forgets to do that sometimes.”

“Thanks,” Greg murmured, stepping away, only to be stopped by Sal’s hand grabbing for his arm. 

“Oi. Thanks for looking out for him, mate. He could use a friend like you.”

He brushed it off, uncomfortable with praise, “It’s nothing.” Back at the table, he took the time to fill another plate, and grabbed two bottles of water, before he slipped into the office. Myc was nearly finished with the plate he already had, and he looked up guiltily when Greg returned. “Brought you more,” Greg said simply, closing the door. He swapped out plates with Myc and set the water bottles next to him. “Sal has things under control.”

Myc hummed, licking his fingers. “Thank you for hiding out with me.”

Greg cracked the top on one of the bottles and handed it over, “‘s what friends are for.” He took advantage of Myc tipping his head back to drink and struggled up onto the stack of boxes, cursing his inept clumsiness.

Myc bumped his shoulder, smiling a little. “You’re not very good at accepting gratitude, are you?”

Shrugging, Greg picked at the label on his own bottle, and mumbled noncommittally. They sat in companionable silence, Myc eating and drinking, drumming his heels on the boxes. Finally he sighed and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth--a surprisingly young and unguarded motion for a man so preternaturally stylish and composed. “Suppose I should go back out there.”

“How late is this thing going?”

“Er...it’s an open house, so I don’t know.” Myc covered his face with one hand, giggling. “Fuck me, I should have given an end time, huh?”

_ I would  _ so  _ fuck you, if you wanted,  _ Greg thought ardently. He pasted a conspiratorial smile on his face, hoping his true thoughts weren’t visible. “Want me to set off the fire alarm?”

Myc’s eyes crinkled, “God, would you?” He laughed, leaning into Greg. “My luck the sprinklers would all engage and the place would be wrecked.”

“So maybe not.”

“Yeah, maybe not.”

Myc put his hand on Greg’s shoulder to steady himself as he slid from the boxes, “I feel calmer, thanks.” He ended up standing quite close, the warmth of his body pressed against Greg’s knee, his belly snugged up to his calves. Greg desperately fought a blush. Myc’s gaze was steady; Greg tried to meet his eyes calmly, although his chest felt tight. “Can I carry you around in my pocket?”

“Don’t think I’d fit,” Greg joked. He made an awkward gesture at his middle, resisting the urge to suck in his belly.

Putting a hand on his arm, Myc smiled at him, “You’re not as big as you think Greg--nor as ungraceful.” He leaned in, going up on his toes to press a glancing kiss to Greg’s cheek, “You should be kinder to yourself.” His breath fanned softly over Greg’s cheek, his mouth. He swallowed a needy whimper. It would be so easy to sway into Myc, to put his arms around his slim form and hug him.

Leaving a shaken and breathless Greg behind, Myc squared his shoulders and slipped out the door, which he failed to close behind him. Greg blinked at the crumb-scattered plates and empty bottles, a little dazed. It was just...that kind of thing was, what was the word he was looking for? Cosmopolitan. Yeah, cosmopolitan. Myc probably kissed everyone on the cheek like some jet-setting playboy.

But did he use that same soft tone when he spoke to everyone? “You’re not special,” Greg whispered to himself, and turned out the light. He was smiling, though, as he left. Myc might not be into him the way Greg wanted, but he was definitely a friend. “Alright...I can work with that.”


End file.
